


Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things

by Wynn



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: A what if for some of the Marvel characters likely not appearing in the movie, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Bucky is Sergeant Scowl, F/M, Prompt Fic, Some Cursing, reference to past character death, reference to past torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 00:50:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3431930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynn/pseuds/Wynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only one less enthused than Jane about this plan is Sergeant Scowl himself, who scowled the first moment he stepped inside, at Darcy’s attempt at a pleasant greeting, and who still scowls now, seeming to prefer fighting Tony Stark’s insane robot than to staying in a stately manor with three prickly yet attractive brunettes. But Thor wouldn’t leave to Avenge the rich and arrogant if Sergeant Scowl didn’t stay, citing his superior strength and sufficient knowledge of Hydra as essential assets. </p><p>Superior people skills apparently weren’t a necessary requirement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CardeaKelsey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CardeaKelsey/gifts).



> One, I love Jane, but she can be a prickly pear sometimes. I’ve made her extra prickly here to begin the narrative. Also, no offense if Voss is your preferred water. The ‘cripples, bastards, and broken things’ phrase is from Tyrion in Game of Thrones/ASoIaF. 
> 
> I do not own the characters used in the following story. They are owned by Marvel and are being used for non-profit, entertainment purposes only.
> 
> This story was inspired by two things: the likely lack of Bucky, Darcy, and Jane from Age of Ultron (and what they could be doing as the Avengers are Avenging against Ultron) as well as a prompt on Tumblr from cardeakelsey: Bucky/Darcy, #14- “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I modified it slightly from ‘I didn’t know’ to ‘We didn’t know.’

Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things  
By: Wynn

“So let me get this straight,” Jane says as she begins to pace the enormous parlor at the front of her mother’s enormous house. “Tony Stark built an AI, which has gone rogue and is threatening to destroy the entire human race, so you two—” She pauses here to point at Thor and Captain Steve America Rogers, both of whom sit on the ornate Restoration-style couch that sits before the glittering bay window, nearly overwhelming its expensive chintz with their expansive bulk. “You two have to go leave to stop it, so your solution to the fact that Hydra has made not one, but _two_ attempts to get to my work is to leave him—” And here she twists her arm behind her to point at the glowering figure by the fireplace, Sergeant Soldier James Winter Barnes. “A former _Hydra assassin_. Your plan is to leave him here with me, Darcy, and _my mother_. That’s what you want to do. That’s your plan.”

That was the plan and it had been for the forty minutes they all had been sitting in the parlor, and though Darcy wants to blame Jane for her objections, her ass growing numb on this ridiculous crap that Mama Foster called furniture, her eyes overpower her ass and prevent her from doing so. The only one less enthused than Jane about this plan is Sergeant Scowl himself, who scowled the first moment he stepped inside, at Darcy’s attempt at a pleasant greeting, and who still scowls now, seeming to prefer fighting Tony Stark’s insane robot than to staying in a stately manor with three prickly yet attractive brunettes. But Thor wouldn’t leave to Avenge the rich and arrogant if Sergeant Scowl didn’t stay, citing his superior strength and sufficient knowledge of Hydra as essential assets. 

Superior people skills apparently weren’t a necessary requirement.

Darcy shifts her gaze now from the still scowling Sergeant to the sofa just in time to see Captain Steve share a look with Thor. She winces and she sees Sam do the same beside her, he at least sane and realizing the pitfall of such a glance.

“No. No, no, no, no, no,” Jane says, stopping to wave a finger at Thor and Captain Steve. “Do _not_ do the shared man look of ‘oh, poor tiny woman, if only she understood.’ I am _more_ than justified in objecting to this insane plan of yours.”

“What else would you have us do?” Thor asks Jane. “This world requires protection. I vowed to do that upon my arrival.”

“You made vows to us too. To me and Darcy. To Erik,” she adds, and though Darcy knows it’s coming, Jane relentless in her efforts to attain her desired goal, she still flinches. The movement draws the attention of Sergeant Scowl, who slides his scowl from Jane to her. Darcy presses her lips together and ignores him, keeping her gaze fixed on Jane.

Thor moves to stand, grief creasing his brow. “Jane—”

“No. I have known this man an _hour_ , and you expect me to let him live here with my mother, in spite of what we know about him.”

“I vouch for him,” Steve says, lifting his chin.

“Oh,” Jane says, lifting hers back at him. “You vouch for him. You, Captain _America_ , vouch for the man who shot JFK.”

At that, Sergeant Scowl stiffens. Steve notices the tension, as does Sam, as does Thor, so as does Jane, and Darcy feels the attempted détente slip from their increasingly numbed grasp, so, heart beating fast, she lurches to her feet, looks Sergeant Scowl right in the eyes, and says, “I’m bored, and my ass is numb. How about you and me go get a drink?”

Everyone looks at her, including Sergeant Scowl, who stares at her as though she spontaneously grew a second head. 

“Darcy,” Jane begins, “I don’t think—”

“I don’t remember asking permission.” 

Jane closes her mouth with a sigh. Darcy stares at Sergeant Scowl, cocking a brow as his silence persists. He blinks once and looks away from her, not to Steve as she expects, but to Sam. 

“You too, Wings,” she says, starting for the hall. “Let’s leave Peter, Paul, and Mary here to hug it out.”

They watch her, all of them, Jane and Thor, Captain Steve and his glaring band of men, as Darcy crosses the room, fighting as best she can against the drag of her left leg on the thick rug. From the corners of her eyes, she sees Sergeant Scowl track her, but she keeps her gaze forward, fixed on the entrance to the hall. She passes through it without looking to see if he or Sam follows her. They would, Sam at least sane enough to realize the benefits of separating Sergeant Scowl from Jane’s increasingly vocal criticisms against him.

They prove her assumption true a few seconds later as she heads for the back of the house.

“A folk band,” Sam says now, his quiet statement echoing in the vast foyer. “From the 1960s.”

Darcy’s step falters at the explanation, at the glimpse behind the drawn and scowling curtain. Of course he would need explanations, his life until a year ago a perpetual cycle of freezings and assassination. Darcy grits her teeth against it, but the memory of Erik flashes into her mind, his need for aid after Loki, after she found him in the asylum and moved in with him here at Jane’s. Swallowing hard, she crooks a hand behind her and says softly, “This way.”

They follow her to the back of the house, past the wide marble staircase, the billiard room, and the epic dining room. The grandeur of the house and grounds still hits Darcy on a regular basis, though by now she’s been living here with Jane for nigh on two years. She sees the same stunned expression on Sam’s face as they cross into the kitchen, large enough to fit in a small apartment. Sergeant Scowl, predictably, scowls as his eyes do a quick sweep of the surroundings.

“So,” she says, moving toward the fridge, “what’s your poison? We have fancy water and fancy beer and fancy tea, or I could make us some fancy coffee.”

Sam claims one of the stools around the closest island counter. “You have fancy water?”

Darcy nods. She stops beside the fridge and pulls open the door, reaching inside to pull out one of the tall, clear cylinders. “Voss. Thirteen dollars a bottle.”

Sam blinks at her. “Thirteen dollars? For water?”

“Yep. And this is the budget stuff Chez Foster got after Thor came. He went through, like, a case of the good stuff in one day. Now, he goes through two.”

Sam blinks at her a second time before holding out a hand. “Well, if it’s god-approved, then I’ve got to try.”

Darcy nods. “What about you?” she asks Sergeant Scowl. He stands behind Sam, his back to the sink, both exits and Darcy in sight. “You want some fancy water?”

“No.”

Before Darcy can even react, Sam swivels around on the stool and looks at Sergeant Scowl. He looks back at Sam and some sort of silent conversation must occur between the two for, a second later, Sergeant Scowl sighs, turns back to Darcy, and says, “Yes. I would like some water.” A beat passes, Sam clears his throat, and then Sergeant Scowl sighs again. “Please.”

Darcy looks from one to the other. “Sure thing,” she says, reaching back inside the fridge for a third bottle. She juggles all in one arm as she nudges the door closed then makes her way over to the counter. Sam moves to help, but she pins him to his stool with one pointed gaze. He sends her a smile in acknowledgement and apology. Sergeant Scowl simply scowls. Easing down onto one of the stools, Darcy hands Sam one of the bottles, places the second before her, and the third in front of the stool to the right of Sam. Sergeant Scowl looks at her, looks at the bottle, and then sighs a third time, but he moves forward to sit, or, more accurately, to pull the stool out and lean, his arms crossed across his chest and his body as stiff as steel. He doesn’t look at either Darcy or Sam, instead focused on the exits or, perhaps, the distant conversation in the parlor. He doesn’t open his water either, not even when Sam sends him another significant glance. Whatever. Let him dehydrate in all his glaring glory.

Darcy takes a drink. As she does, she feels Sam shift his gaze to her. She meets his eyes upon lowering the bottle, steeling herself as she sees the question in them.

“Something you want to know?”

Sam nods. “Dr. Foster. Why is she so…?”

“Prickly?”

“Hesitant,” Sam corrects. “We just want to help.”

“Even him?” Darcy asks, pointing at Sergeant Scowl. “Because all he’s done is scowl.”

“Yes,” Sam says as Sergeant Scowl shifts on the stool. “Even Barnes.”

“Barnes? So he does have a name.”

Sergeant Scowl scowls at her. “Of course I have a name.”

Darcy turns to him. “Oh really? Because when I greeted you at the door and said, ‘Hi. My name is Darcy,’ you just looked at me. You didn’t say anything. You just walked on by.” 

He stares at her a moment before looking away. Her eyes widen as an honest-to-god flush starts at the collar of his black tee and rises up his neck. He squirms even more when Sam swivels on the stool to face him again.

“Barnes, man…” 

“She surprised me.”

Darcy lifts her brows. “I surprised you? With hello?”

But he says nothing to her. He just squirms some more, and the section of her heart that she finds reserved for ‘cripples, bastards, and broken things’ clenches up hard. She stalls by taking a drink of water, hoping for the feeling to pass, needing it to, that part of her too battered and bruised to use again, but she feels the same upon swallowing, so she gives into the inevitable, setting down her bottle to look at him and say, “Why don’t we start again? Hi. My name is Darcy.”

His eyes dart up to meet hers. He stares at Darcy, tense, almost vibrating from the tension. Sam turns away but Darcy holds his gaze, and, after a moment, he says softly, releasing a long breath as he does, “Barnes. Bucky. You can— You can call me Bucky.”

Sam glances at Bucky, looking away though before Bucky can meet his gaze. Darcy ignores the potential implication, instead nodding once at Bucky in acknowledgement and appreciation.

“Now,” she says, turning back to Sam. “You wanted to know why Jane was so prickly.”

He meets her gaze, either still shaken by Bucky or by her return to the question. “You don’t have to—” 

“No. You need to know— Well, _you_ need to know,” she says, arching a brow at Bucky. “I kind of thought you would already. That Thor or Steve would have said something.”

“Just the gist,” Sam reveals. “That it was in-house. But nothing more. There wasn’t time.”

She nods, less in understanding of superhero timetables and more for something to do, to distract from the emotion already beginning to clamp down upon her throat. She clears it, lifts the bottle for another drink. As she does, Darcy feels Bucky watch her. She glances at him, expecting, in spite of the recent thaw, another scowl, but finds instead something that, in a past life, may have been concern. Darcy lowers her gaze. She swallows again and licks her lips and tries to find the strength, once more, to begin.

“His name was Ian. I hired him to be Jane’s intern. To be my intern really. We were…” She pauses and her hands clench on the bottle, but she forces the admission with the belief that they needed to know. “We were together. Kind of. I just wanted sex. He wanted a relationship and the secrets to deep space travel apparently.” Darcy shrugs at the lame joke. Neither Sam nor Bucky say anything though, so, after a moment, she pulls in a breath and continues. “Four months ago, when Thor left to help Steve with you, Ian made his move. Erik— Jane’s mentor, my friend— he found him when he was…” Her hands start to shake. She presses her lips together, willing the phantom pain to subside. “When he was torturing me. He wanted the combination to Jane’s safe, to get her equipment. Erik tried to stop him, but he— He died. I would have too, except Jane found us and she shot him.”

Darcy closes her eyes. She smells the blood again, hers and Erik’s, feels the restraints digging into her wrists, sees Jane with her dad’s ancient hunting rifle standing, pale and shivering, above Ian as he died. Flinching from the memory, Darcy opens her eyes. Both Sam and Bucky look at her, but she looks at neither, instead staring at her bottle though she speaks to Bucky. “So it’s not you. Or it is, but not for the reason you think. In fact, if Jane weren’t so angry with Thor and the Captain right now, she’d probably sign you right up. There’s no one out there that hates Hydra more than you do. At least none that we know of.”

They’re silent in the wake of her revelations. Darcy swallows more of her water, struggling to gain control over her emotions. She fails, shivering once, then again at the taut pull of scar tissue over her back. In her periphery, she sees Sam move. He leans forward until he catches her eye; the sympathy she discerns makes her want to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “We didn’t know.”

Darcy shrugs and starts to stand. “You needed to, especially if you’ll be staying. Which you will be,” she says, casting a quick look at Bucky. “Just give Jane, like, twenty more minutes to work through her rage, and we’ll be good for launch.” She pauses, recalling the hall, then says to him, “That’s—”

“I understood the reference.”

“Right.” She eases off the stool and points a finger back at the fridge. “Well, feel free to raid the fridge if you’re hungry. Lots of food in there. Some fancy, some not. I’m gonna— I need some air.”

She turns without waiting for a response and heads for the back door. Opening it, she slips onto the stone veranda, breathing in the crisp spring air as she does. It soothes her nerves, banishing the memory of that ugly January night back to the recesses of her subconscious. Darcy crosses to the end of the veranda and leans against the waist-high wall; a few birds peck at the grounds that stretch before her. The sight still impresses, Darcy growing up with a squashed strip of a yard encircled by an rusting chain-link fence. She focuses on the birds, on their chirping, on the wind whispering through the surrounding trees, striving for the meditative calm she’s been practicing with Thor. 

The sound of the kitchen door opening behind her shatters her nascent attempts.

“You shouldn’t be out here. Not alone.”

Darcy can’t help the sigh. Sam she could have handled, the man capable of conversation, even one fraught with trauma from the past. Not Bucky though. She blames this and not her frazzled nerves for her shortness. 

“Hydra won’t come here. Not with Thor still around. They learned that lesson the second time.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. When he does, it’s staccato, as if he’s recalling words that he once spoke long ago. “That’s not— I didn’t… mean… that. I meant…”

Frowning, Darcy turns around. She expects to find his customary scowl. She finds intensity, she finds resolve instead, but it’s the last that makes her blood boil and fixes a scowl upon her face.

“I don’t need your pity.”

He blinks at her, shocked. “It’s not pity.”

“No?” She arches a brow at him. “Because it sure as hell looks a lot like pity.”

“It’s not,” he says again. His eyes look past her, scanning the grounds, the birds, the wall, and the sky before finally returning to her. When they do, he slowly moves forward, toward her, his arms stiff by his side, as though she were a wild animal he was afraid of spooking. “I’ve spent the past year figuring out who I am,” he says, his explanation as slow to come as his steps. “What I feel. Pity denotes contempt. Condescension. That’s not what I feel.”

Bucky stops by the wall, about three feet away from her. Darcy turns toward him, frank in her appraisal. He endures the inspection, giving her one of her own in return. His clothes scream military—boots with black combat pants tucked inside, a black tee and jacket and one glove on his left hand. But his hair contradicts the impeccable severity, reaching his shoulders and both curling and tangling from the wind. It sets a surprisingly soft frame for his worn and shadowed face, for bright eyes that show no guile when they look at her. 

No pity either.

The anger hardening her face begins to fade. “So not pity,” she says, easing the weight off of her left leg.

Bucky shakes his head. “Empathy. And respect.”

Her eyes widen at that. “Why?”

“Because you’re still standing.”

The explanation does little to diminish her shock. Darcy gapes at him, past the point of decorum, but he doesn’t squirm or sigh or show any other sign of irritation at her gawking stare. He merely looks in return, giving her time to process.

“Well, shit,” she says when she does.

Surprise number two comes when his mouth twitches in something that, in a past life, may have been a smile.

Surprise number three quickly follows with the thought of whether, if she tried, she could bring it back out in this one.

“Aw, hell,” she mutters, closing her eyes.

Birds twitter and the wind blows but Bucky doesn’t speak as Darcy desperately tries to avoid this twist in the road. Then he does and she can’t, the twist rising up to smack her full in the face.

“Did I surprise you?”

Her eyes snap open at the question. His expression reveals the depth of his remark, more of a comment than a question, a revelation and a response to her earlier inquiry about his surprise. He had seen something within her when he walked through the door, some unexpected twist in the way she spoke or the way she stood or the way she waved to him. Now he reveals that to her, he offers it to her, that unexpected kinship and connection, for acceptance or rejection.

“Yes.”

Rather than relax, he tenses further. “Is that… okay? Since I’ll be staying.”

Darcy peers at him, her brows drawn together, then his meaning clarifies, his oblique reference to Ian, and she huffs out a soft laugh. “You’re not Hydra.” 

“I was.”

“No,” she says. “You weren’t.”

Bucky peers at her, intent again and resolute. “How do you know?”

Darcy bites down on her bottom lip, trying to restrain her smile, but she can’t, her nickname for him prophetic, an unexpected revelation, a boon in being. “Because you scowl too much.” 

His mouth twitches again. Darcy doesn’t need to explain the rest, not to him, he already knows how Hydra smiles, how they slip in, seamless and sly, their deception as smooth as satin, free from wear and wrinkle and tear. No cripples or bastards or broken things for them, not anymore, just an uncanny perfection, a sickly sweetness that you detect only when it’s too late. 

“Come on,” she says, starting for the door. “Let’s go see if fury road has run its course. If not, we can scowl it into submission.”

She glances back over her shoulder. Bucky stands by the wall, a sleek shadow, stark against the afternoon sun, but she sees it again as she looks at him, the hint of a smile on his face, creased and worn but warm and real, and she knows as he moves to follow that she won’t mind if she sees it again. 

*


End file.
